


Irresistible (don't come too close)

by tiniestawoo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Bars and Pubs, Choose Your Own Ending, Creepy Uncle Peter Hale, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Road Trips, Sex under Thrall, Siren Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Leaves Beacon Hills, Texas, Underage Drinking, gratuitous use of southern dialect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/pseuds/tiniestawoo
Summary: If there was anything Peter had learned over the years – twenty-six years of freedom, six of pain-and-rage-filled isolation, and the last two either dead or under the watchful eye of his nephew and the pack – it’s patience.From the very first time Peter met Stiles, he’d been an enigma, a puzzle for Peter to figure out. At first glance Stiles was loud, brash and abrasive, but that was just a mask. Under it was a calculating nature, not unlike Peter’s own. The well crafted persona hid a talented natural liar, a quiet observer, a background manipulator. Stiles was a walking contradiction and it was delicious.-or, the one where Stiles is desperate to get away from Beacon Hills before he hurts someone, and Peter has never been one to pass up an opportunity.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 33
Kudos: 146
Collections: Steter Week 2020, Teen Wolf Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Evil Has a Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199597) by [tiniestawoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/pseuds/tiniestawoo). 



> HELLO! And welcome to "CJ can't stop fucking writing about Siren!Stiles" haha. This is my submission for both Steter Week 2020 AND a fill for my Teen Wolf Bingo card, for "murder husbands"!
> 
> Help this story reach others by reblogging the [gifset I made for it on Tumblr!](https://tiniestawoo.tumblr.com/post/625162621279141888/irresistible-dont-come-too-close)
> 
> This fic is beta'd by Meri/impractical_matters, and I had help making the "Texas" bits as true-to-life as possible from Caden/pinknogitsune. Thank you both so much! See the End Notes for links to their tumblrs!
> 
> While it _really_ helps to have read Evil Has a Name (linked as "inspired by"!!) by myself and impractical_matters, it's absolutely not required. I highly recommend it at some point! This story jumps off and heads a different direction from the _in a meadow starred with flowers_ series. If you have read EHAN, dive right in!
> 
> TL;DR version of the siren origin story: Somewhere in his background, Stiles had siren blood that was activated by the Nogitsune, making him acquire some siren features. EHAN goes into detail on this stuff, but generally, canon continues to happen basically the same way except, instead of Peter going to Eichen, he and Derek go to Europe to figure out what Stiles is, and then at the end of 5B, where instead of Lydia separating Mason from the Beast, it's Stiles.

_the song that forces men_  
_to leap overboard in squadrons_  
_even though they see the beached skulls_

_the song nobody knows_  
_because anyone who has heard it_  
_is dead, and the others can't remember._

-Excerpt, Siren Song, Margaret Atwood

There was no non-supernatural explanation for how Stiles knew specifically that it was Peter lurking a few steps behind him as he walked past the cereal and towards the boxes of poptarts. He wasn’t even 100% confident in his ability to explain the supernatural reasons for it.

Everyone, it seemed, suddenly had their own unique energy to them. Even his dad, who was only human and otherwise impervious to his newly named powers, had a certain psychic signature, which Stiles had noticed more as he stopped resisting his own abilities. Peter felt powerful and dangerous. Intrigue was the most obvious of his carefully masked emotions.

Turning to face the pop tarts, catching the once-dead once-Alpha werewolf in his periphery, Stiles shook his head slowly. They’d been playing this little game for two weeks now: Peter _casually_ followed Stiles around town, seemingly eager to see the ‘Siren in action’ while Stiles pretended not to notice. 

With the Beast gone there was surprisingly little for Stiles to do outside of his usual day-to-day. He stayed away from the pack, especially Lydia, went to school, did his homework and then went to sleep. He ignored the growing pit of need in his chest that begged him to do _something_.

So, in reality, what Peters saw was a lot of nothing.

Now that he was aware that the need he was feeling was his siren nature begging him to feed, to manipulate someone, to _use_ someone, he knew now more than ever that he needed to ignore it. He needed to use everything he’d ever learned about werewolves, focus on finding an anchor, and push that feeling as far inside him as he possibly could. 

He may not have had a say in whether or not the Nogitsune activated his siren heritage, but he would _damn well_ have a say in whether or not he used people against their will.

“How long are we going to play this game, Stiles? It’s getting _really_ boring.” 

Something deep inside poked at him and reminded Stiles that he didn’t need to put up with this. He didn’t have to just stand here and let Peter pester and follow him around and– 

“ **Leave me alone** ,” he said. His hands clenched and he kept his gaze fixed on the pop tarts, still trying to decide between cookies and cream and wildberry. 

Peter’s psychic signature was overtaken by an emotion Stiles would never have predicted: _glee_. 

“That was a good attempt. I bet you don’t feel any better, though. Pop Tarts are never going to fill _that_ hunger, Stiles. Your thrall works on everyone else; on Scott and Derek and let’s not forget about _Lydia_.” Stiles shuddered at the memory of her lips against his. “But you’re going to have to work a bit harder to control someone like me.”

Eyes fluttering closed, Stiles whispered, “I don’t want to control anyone. I don’t want to be like _you_.” 

He felt Peter’s hand at the center of his back as the werewolf leaned in close, his breath hot against Stiles’s ear. “I know. You’ve _never_ wanted to be like me.” Flashes of a dark parking garage sprung to Stiles’s mind. “But you don’t get to choose anymore, Stiles. You can manipulate someone willingly – like me – or you will eventually lose this fight against yourself and someone is going to get hurt.” 

Something in the deep dark, corners of Stiles’s mind agreed with what Peter was saying. It reached out towards Peter, begging Stiles to loosen the bindings and let it take what he was so freely offering.

 _You will eventually lose this fight against yourself_. 

Stiles’s hands began to shake and his stomach churned at what that could mean. What would it even look like for him to lose control? In lore, sirens lured men from ships and ate them. Would Stiles losing control cause him to turn into the next supernatural danger that needed to be removed from Beacon Hills?

 _Someone is going to get hurt_. 

Someone could be Derek, whose psychic signature was tinged with a _desire_ that he’d never expressed out loud. It could be Scott, who was an endless supply of positive emotions like hope and affection, but all underlaid with an inevitable sense of worry. It could be Lydia, despite the distance that was between them now. Distance that Stiles did _not_ want. Distance that was the direct result of his powers getting out of his control. 

Stiles turned his head, gaze finding Peter’s cool blue stare. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” 

A gleeful smirk split across Peter’s face, revealing neat rows of perfectly human teeth that still managed to spark fear in Stiles. “You’re the smart one, aren’t you? You know there’s only one way to be _sure_ that no one gets hurt.” 

Stiles nodded slowly, his need aching in his chest. His fear for his friends was stronger than his hatred for Peter in this moment. 

“When do we leave?” 

Stiles didn’t need to be a werewolf to smell the satisfaction on Peter as he brushed his thumb in slow strokes against Stiles’s back and said, “As soon as possible.”

\--

If there was anything Peter had learned over the years – twenty-six years of freedom, six of pain-and-rage-filled isolation, and the last two either dead or under the watchful eye of his nephew and the pack – it’s patience. 

From the very first time Peter met Stiles, he’d been an enigma, a puzzle for Peter to figure out. At first glance Stiles was loud, brash and abrasive, but that was just a mask. Under it was a calculating nature, not unlike Peter’s own. The well crafted persona hid a talented natural liar, a quiet observer, a background manipulator. Stiles was a walking contradiction and it was _delicious_. 

Stiles being a siren was a delightful development. The morally grey pack strategist was now a bloodthirsty creature, able and _dying_ to manipulate and _take_ whatever it was he needed to fulfill the cravings inside of him. Anyone becoming a siren would have offered a unique opportunity, but the fact that it was Stiles just made it that much better.

Stiles, who had a history of hurting people when he lost control. Stiles, who had been possessed and had more innocent blood on his hands than anyone else in the pack. Stiles, who had once valued the very skill he now feared: situational manipulation. 

They departed Beacon Hills that night. Stiles left a note for his dad telling him not to worry (he’d worry anyway) and to tell Scott not to look for him (which Scott would likely ignore). He left his cell phone and keys on the table beside the note. Peter could smell the sadness on him, but chose not to mention it. 

Stiles was silent as they drove past the ‘Thanks for visiting Beacon Hills’ sign. Peter chose a path east, through Reno and then on to wherever it was they decided to stop. Stiles sat with his head tipped against the window, breath blowing a repetitious cloud of condensation onto the glass. Peter kept his eyes focused on the road, but all of his senses were focused on Stiles. 

“You should use your thrall,” Peter offered quietly. “It would make you feel better.”

An abrupt laugh escaped Stiles. “Yeah? Well you already showed me it didn’t work on you, so how do you propose I do that?” 

Peter tsked. “I didn’t say it didn’t work on me. I said you were going to have to work harder.” Peter switched so he was driving with his left hand and extended his right across the console, watching in his periphery as Stiles stared at it. “Vocal thrall is the least effective against creatures like werewolves. For werewolves, our senses of smell and touch are much higher in importance. You can’t make me _smell_ your thrall, but you can make me feel it. It’s called tactile thrall, it’s what you used on Scott at the hospital.” 

“I just have to… hold your hand?”

 _This boy_. Peter rolled his eyes. “You have to touch me. How you choose to do that is up to you.” Peter wiggled his fingers. “My understanding is that you have to _want_ whatever it is you’re telling me to do. Just like in the grocery store, when you wanted to be left alone. Start with something logical, like continuing to drive, or–”

Stiles’s warm hand slid against his, fingers pressed flat against each other, rather than laced together. 

“ **Stop talking.** ”

The thrall felt like a tingle in the back of Peter’s mind, a sense of foreboding, a block on his ability to form words. He glanced at Stiles, unimpressed, and then turned back to the road.

The little shit was smiling.

\--

They stopped the next morning just outside of Salt Lake City at a motel that Peter paid for. It wouldn’t always be safe to use Peter’s credit cards, but for the moment it was safe to assume that the pack wouldn’t immediately single out _Peter_ as Stiles’s traveling partner. 

The motel was cheaper than anything Stiles could imagine a snob like Peter staying in, but the werewolf had toted their bags in without complaint and then commandeered the bathroom. 

Stiles sat on the edge of one of the beds, exhausted but waiting for his own turn at a shower before he slept. He’d tried, repeatedly, to sleep in the car but using his thrall on Peter had invigorated him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

He _hated it_. 

Peter emerged from the bathroom in just a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his hair dripping against his forehead. Stiles swallowed hard and quickly returned his eyes to the floor, but the quiet chuckle from the werewolf told Stiles that he had been less-than successful in hiding his body’s reaction to Peter’s nearly-naked self. 

He shouldered past Peter into the bathroom, realizing after he’d closed and locked the door that he’d left his clean clothes outside. That was a problem for future Stiles. 

Showering felt heavy. It felt like more than just a simple washing of his body; it felt like Stiles was shedding the weight of Beacon Hills and the worries of hurting his dad and his friends. It felt like Stiles was washing off the skin he’d worn for 18 years and leaving behind a new version of himself; Stiles Stilinski, the Siren.

When he was done he wrapped himself in a towel and peeked out into the room to see where Peter was. He wanted to be cautious and _not_ encourage the werewolf’s obvious obsession with him any further.

Peter was tucked into the opposite bed, and facing away from the bathroom, so Stiles hurried out to grab his clothes and return to the bathroom, only to be stopped by Peter rolling over and fixing him with a stare.

“I knew what I was getting myself into, Stiles,” Peter said, just loud enough that Stiles could hear. The blue eyes raked from head to toe, a smirk forming on wetted lips. “Sirens feed on manipulating others. Killing me would be both difficult and disadvantageous, but _seducing me_ –”

“Is that what you wanted out of this?” Stiles laughed and shook his head, “I should have seen that one coming, I guess. Give it up, Peter. I used my thrall earlier. I’m fine. I don’t need to _seduce_ you.” Stiles darted back into the bathroom.

“I’m just saying,” Peter’s voice drifted through the bathroom door, “If making me shut up for a few minutes sated the thrall, imagine what sleeping with me would feel like.” 

Stiles tried in vain to ignore the words. His mind could, but his body seemed unable to, his cock rising beneath the towel in response to Peter’s crooning voice. Stiles bit down on his lip hard and dragged in a breath, rubbing one hand over his face. 

“I can smell you, Stiles.” Peter _had_ to be out of bed now, his voice just on the other side of the door. “How long has it been that your body has wanted this way? I bet while you were denying your nature it was all you could think about. I bet you went to bed every night _desperate_ to touch and be touched.” 

Stiles’s breath was coming in heavy pants now, his cock achingly hard, hands gripped in the clothing he’d brought with him into the bathroom. 

“ **Shut the fuck up,”** He growled, magic and a desire to be left alone spiraling out of him. He had no idea if it would be enough with the door between him and Peter. When Peter had been silent for a few seconds, Stiles tried again, “ **Go back to bed.** ” 

Quiet footsteps meant that either the thrall had worked or Peter had given up on his attempt to drive Stiles mad. 

He kept quiet as he quickly stroked himself to completion with only the hotel lotion as lube, coming in the shower and then rinsing it down before he re-dressed. He pointedly ignored the werewolf as he climbed into the opposite bed from him, facing away. 

Ultimately, It didn’t really matter if he was looking at Peter or not. He could still _feel_ the smugness from across the motel room. 

\--

Stiles slept until gnawing in his stomach – both kinds, normal human hunger and siren need – forced him awake. The late-afternoon sunlight had worked its way through the cracks in the curtains, leaving lines of color across the otherwise grayscale room. Stiles stayed put for a while, letting his mind wander. Peter had to still be sleeping, his psyche soft and muted instead of loud and overwhelming like it normally was.

While they were driving, Stiles had allowed himself the luxury of forgetting who exactly he was traveling with. They’d burned hours listening to music that rotated hourly between Peter’s choice – classical that threatened to put Stiles to sleep – and Stiles’s – his usual mid-2000’s pop punk mix. From time to time, once he could speak again, Peter would offer up bits of magical lore, sucking Stiles into conversation that he’d otherwise have tried to avoid. 

It had seemed normal. And in that normalcy, Stiles had allowed himself to forget that this was the same man who killed his niece, that used Lydia to resurrect himself, that worked with _Kate Argent_ of all people to try and kill Scott. Sure, he and Derek had gone on a big European search to find answers for Stiles, but he was still _Peter Hale_. And that had been made blatantly obvious the night before. 

The worst part, though, wasn’t that Stiles had forgotten. It wasn’t that Peter was still a creep who had tried to seduce him. The worst part was that Peter was _right._ Something inside Stiles had agreed with what Peter had said; seducing Peter, having _sex_ with Peter would inevitably make Stiles feel better. And something about the idea that Peter would be under his control made Stiles almost wish he could choke down his own reservations and just go for it. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts _before_ his body could react to the idea of fucking Peter, he pressed up to a seat, habitually reaching for his phone only to realize with a sinking heart that his phone wasn’t there. His phone was back in Beacon Hills, possibly still on the table. It had still been just under 24 hours since they’d left. Stiles stared at the numbers on the clock like they were the reason his dad would be frantic, like they were the reason the pack would be scouring the area in a futile search to find them.

Would they check the coyote den? The basement of Eichen House? The Dread Doctors’ lair? Had they already searched the town? Did they even miss him?

Doubt choked him; the idea that maybe none of them had even realized he was gone. It would be no one's fault but his own. He’d pulled away hard since the big siren reveal; he’d avoided them, mostly for their own good, but just a little for his own.

After the Bite, Stiles had never allowed Scott to believe he was a monster. It wasn’t in Scott’s nature to be so. On the other hand, Stiles knew he could never allow himself to think that he was anything _but_ a monster. 

The world swirled around him, black spots growing into lines of darkness across his vision. Stiles grabbed at his hair, tugged at the strands, flopped back onto the bed, anything to try and loosen the grip of fear on his chest. The bed dipped and Peter’s psychic signature – intrigue, concern, an undercurrent of desire – was suddenly very close. 

“Shh.” Warm hands tugged at him, tucking him awkwardly against a smooth chest. A soft voice whispered, “Breathe in for me, Stiles.” Hands slid down his back as he did. “And now out.” The hands slid back up on Stiles’s exhale, as if Peter could push the air out of Stiles’s lungs for him. 

It took a while for Stiles to come down from the panic attack. He stayed there, curled up against Peter’s chest with the older man’s hand stroking that in-out down-up pattern along his back. 

When he could think beyond _they’ve forgotten me_ , it occurred to him that sometime in Peter’s life he’d learned a way to calm someone during a panic attack. Someone in Peter’s life had been prone to panic attacks.

It was a reminder of how little Stiles really knew about him.

Some indeterminate amount of time later Peter said, “I’m glad I remembered how to do that. What prompted the panic attack, Stiles?”

Stiles pulled away from the werewolf’s grasp, rubbing at his tear-stung eyes. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Peter chuckled, “It clearly mattered to you, Stiles.” 

“It’s none of your business, okay? Just… drop it.” Stiles climbed out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. As he got there he stopped, glancing over his shoulder at Peter, who cocked an eyebrow over a focused blue eye. “Thanks,” he muttered before heading through the door away from the wolf.

Peter was a master at masking, it turned out. He could hide the grief from his face, and possibly even from his scent, but he couldn’t hide it from Stiles. For Stiles, his grief rang out, clear and poignant and so unbelievably unexpected. 

Had the person Peter learned to calm from their panic attacks died in fire?

\--

“Texas?” Stiles asked around a bite of fries. They were sitting at a diner grabbing a bite to eat before leaving when Peter had informed Stiles that from here, they’d be taking a turn south to head into Texas.

“Chew before you speak.” Peter rolled his eyes. “What are you, twelve?”

“Eighteen,” Stiles retorted pointedly once he’d swallowed. “Like, half your age. Maybe remember that the next time we stop for the night.” 

Peter chuckled quietly but glanced up with a smirk. “Age is just a number. You’re not an average eighteen-year-old, are you? You might technically be eighteen for another century.” 

Stiles paled at the thought, sitting back against the booth. He grabbed for his drink and busied himself chewing on the straw. They still didn’t know what all the effects of the Nogitsune’s magic would be. Natural born sirens were, for all intents and purposes, immortal. The Beast had torn its way through Stiles and he’d healed up perfectly fine, like the werewolves did – or maybe better, if the rumours were true. The uncertainty of his future threatened to drag up the remnant panic that Stiles had just pushed away. 

Peter seemed to sense this, sitting forward. “But, that’s a problem for another day.” He took a bite of his food, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed before continuing. “Yes, Texas. If you were our _darling_ pack, would you think to look for _me_ in Texas? Plus, at least Texas is warm.”

Stiles tipped his drink at Peter in concession and stared at the food he no longer had an appetite for. His _other_ appetite, though, was alive and well. 

“Isn’t Texas gigantic? Telling me we’re going to the state doesn’t give me much information to work with.” 

“You can’t just trust me?” 

“No.” Stiles over-enunciated the word and took the last few drinks of his soda before sliding out of the booth. “I’m gonna go get some air. Thanks for dinner.” He smirked and headed for the door. 

The air outside was cold. Stiles pulled his hood up over his ears and the sleeves of the sweatshirt down over his hands, tucking them across his chest. He turned his head to the side, rubbing his nose against the soft fabric. It was the red hoodie that had once belonged to his best friend. If he inhaled hard enough, he wondered if his non-werewolf nose would register any of Scott’s residual scent in the fabric.

 _Would Scott be okay without him?_ The question ate at him.

He leaned back against the car, pulling in deep breaths and trying not to let his mind wander too far. Everything was terrifying right now, and the incessant need in his chest didn’t make anything better.

“You all alone, Red?” a voice to his left asked. The psychic signature was… unpleasant. It had all the darkness that existed in Peter’s without any of the redeeming qualities.

Stiles debated pretending he couldn’t hear the person, but eventually gave in and turned his head slowly. A tall, thin man with overly large blue eyes stared at him. 

“And what if I am?” 

The man stepped closer to Stiles, licking his lips, shamelessly raking his eyes from Stiles’s face to his feet and back up. “You’re awfully pretty to be out here by yourself.” One of his bony hands reached towards Stiles’s face.

The implication, and the look, froze Stiles’s blood faster than the chilly air ever could. He smacked the hand away. It was disconcerting that the desire to kill the man didn’t feel like anything other than normal, but he forced that away. 

“You think I need someone else to take care of me?” He asked, turning to face him.

“With a face like yours? It wouldn’t be safe for you to be alone.” 

Stiles glanced at the ground and smirked, his hood casting a shadow over his eyes. The need inside him surged up as he spoke, wrapping tendrils of magic around the man. “ **Get on your knees.** ” The man’s face fell to a neutral expression, but his eyes screamed in surprise when he actually did. “You’re the kind of sick bastard that just takes what he wants, aren’t you?” The man just stared. “ **Answer me.** ”

“Yes,” the man answered, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “I can take whatever I want.”

Stiles nodded, dropping into a squat in front of the man and studying his face. “ **When I tell you** , **you’re gonna leave here. Go home. Talk to no one else,** ” Stiles paused for a moment, considering his word choice carefully, “ **Once you’re there, I want you tofind something to fuck yourself with, and then fuck you like you would have fucked me.** ” Stiles stood up. “ **Go.** ”

The man scrambled to his feet, throwing a still-confused look over his shoulder at Stiles as his body clearly moved without his explicit permission.

Behind him, Stiles felt Peter approach, clapping slowly. Stiles turned slowly to face him, cocking an eyebrow and challenging him to say something. 

“What?” Peter asked. “Did you expect me, of all people, to scold you for that? I detest sexual predators.” 

Stiles cocked his head to the side, “What’s that phrase about stones and glass houses?” 

Peter chuckled and shook his head slowly, “Get in the car, you brat. I was _trying_ to help you, but I bet you’re all charged up from that little demonstration, hmm? Seems you don’t need my help after all.” 

Stiles had to admit that ordering the man around had made him feel more content than any meal possibly could. He was full of energy, riding shotgun with no phone to occupy his time was going to be hell. 

He considered for a minute, cocking his head to the side. “Give me the keys, I want to drive.” 

“What? No.”

Stiles smirked, reaching for Peter’s shoulder before the werewolf could move away. “ **Give me the keys, Peter** ,” he said, holding out his other hand expectantly. “ **I’m driving for a bit**.”

Stiles _watched_ the struggle in the werewolf’s eyes but Peter eventually handed the keys over. Stiles reached up to pat his cheek, climbed into the drivers side and waited. “Don’t make me order you to get in the car. I can and I will.”

Peter was still grumbling about being a passenger _in his own car_ fifty miles later. 

\--

The decision to go to Texas had several useful features for Peter. 

First, he was absolutely correct; Texas would be the last place the pack would look for them. Derek was well aware that Peter had always (aside from one lapse in judgement that had apparently resulted in Malia) preferred men, which alone made a conservative state like Texas an unlikely choice for him to make. That, naturally, was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. 

The other, though, was much less obvious, and Peter was hoping to keep it that way as long as possible. He was no longer an alpha. He would need, eventually, to make contact with a pack, or he risked becoming omega. A connection with someone like Stiles, a supernatural but not a werewolf, would increase the length of time he could manage without an alpha, but even he couldn’t stay alone forever.

There were only a few major metropolitan areas in Texas, and so much sparsely populated land made it very attractive to werewolf packs. Peter, as the former Left Hand of Talia’s pack, had been well versed in pack structure and territory. 

If he wanted to find an alpha, a place like Texas was exactly where he needed to go; there were more packs than they knew what to do with, and a conservative social structure for shitty alphas to hide their behavior behind. 

And, that was the point of this little trip, after all. Sure, there was the (incredibly out of character) altruistic angle – Peter removing Stiles, the dangerous siren, from the vicinity of the pack – but that was a cover. It was a cover that Stiles seemed determined to blow with his incessant need to ask questions. 

Becoming an alpha by himself was possible but tricky. He didn’t have the strength or the speed that he’d need to take one down. It had been one of many flaws in his plan to kill the True Alpha. Even stolen power from other sources was no match for a pair of red eyes and an unshakeable will to live. No, if Peter wanted to become an alpha again – and _he did_ – he was going to need backup.

And, conveniently, it had been delivered to him in the form of one Stiles Stilinski: insecure, self-deprecating and _incredibly powerful_. 

There was just the pesky matter of how perceptive he was. He refused to divulge much about what exactly he could do, but Peter was sure he had acquired some of the extrasensory bonuses that natural born sirens had; emotional perception and the reading of psychic signatures. 

That, along with his potent ability to control the will of his victims meant that if Peter was going to wield him like a weapon, he had to be very careful not to cut _himself_ in the process.

\--

It took another two days of travel to get to Arlington, Texas. The Alpha there was notorious for being an asshole, and had a whole pack full of blue-eyed betas with little regard for human life. Hunters had tried for years to take him out and failed. That made it unlikely that _when_ Peter succeeded, anyone would want retribution for what he did. 

He decided that given Stiles’s stunt with the would-be-rapist in the diner parking lot, he’d lay aside his desire to get the Siren into bed until they were settled. He had very little idea of how long it took for the need inside Stiles to grow, but Peter had no doubt that with enough time, even Stiles would break when offered a willing participant.

They lost a day on the Arizona-New Mexico border, after a thrall-enforced trip to Four Corners. Once Stiles got to see his precious underwhelming landmark, they’d found a storage facility for Peter’s car and purchased – in cash – a new one. 

Peter also made contact with an old friend in Albuquerque to acquire new identification for both of them, and subsequently used it to buy new phones. Before they left, Peter had made a hefty withdrawal from his accounts to fund the next period of their lives without leaving a paper trail.

“Peter.” Stiles was reclined back in the passenger seat as they cut their way across the top of Texas, his feet on the dash. In his hands was his new ID, a Tennessee license with his face and ‘Miles Carter’ printed in place of his name. “Why Tennessee?”

“There's a Beacon Hills in Tennessee,” Peter answered easily. “Safer, in case you slip up.” 

He caught Stiles’s nod out of the corner of his eye, carefully keeping his eyes on the road. Driving at night and sleeping through the day for four days had taken a toll on both of them, but their goal was no more than a few hours away. 

“Peter?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Stiles?”

“Is there a reason you made me twenty-one?” 

Peter smirked. “There’s a vibrant bar scene in Arlington, from what I’m told. You’re a potentially immortal supernatural creature. You’ve literally and figuratively sacrificed yourself for the last two years, I figured at the very least you deserve the chance to drink.”

“You sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been trying to get in my pants since we left California?” Stiles accused, pointing at Peter with the license.

Finally taking his eyes off the road to look at him, Peter let his smirk grow into a real smile. “My dear, the age of consent in Texas is 17. You’re eighteen. If you think your age is a deterrent, you’re mistaken.” 

The look on Stiles’s face was worth all the money this trip had cost him so far.

\--

Stiles stared at the building that Peter had parked outside of skeptically. Were he to have taken this trip alone, with what little money he had in his savings account, sure, he might have lived in a run-down building on the edge of town. 

It was hard, however, to see _Peter_ living in a place like this. The roof looked like it had seen better days, and there were entire chunks of bricks missing from the front of the building.

“Are you coming or not?” Peter called from outside the car, stretching. 

“You’re staying here… voluntarily?” Stiles asked as he climbed out. 

Peter turned to him. “Not up to your standards, _Miles_?” 

Stiles pursed his lips. “It’s not my standards I’m concerned about,” he answered, “It’s _yours_.” 

Peter shrugged one shoulder, “Considering I’ll need to drive a considerable distance if I need to acquire more money, I figured I shouldn’t waste what I do have on housing. You’re immortal–”

“Would you _stop bringing that up_?”

“–I’m a werewolf. I’m sure we can manage.” Peter winked and grabbed his duffel from the back seat, waiting patiently as Stiles retrieved his own before locking the newly acquired SUV. Inside the building a round, pink-faced man in an overly fancy suit greeted them, handing Peter a set of keys and eyeing Stiles warily. 

“Who’s he?” the man asked. “You didn’t say anything about another tenant.” 

“My partner,” Peter explained with a bright smile, curling an arm over Stiles’s shoulders before he could squawk out in objection.

“Business partner?” he inquired, his jaw set in blatant distaste.

“Yes!” Stiles answered quickly, tugging himself out of Peter’s grip. He turned to the werewolf, “You always introduce us like that and people get the wrong idea. It was bad enough in Tennessee.”

The old man didn’t seem convinced but he shook his head and waved a hand. “Careful around these parts. Not always the safest at night if you get my meaning. You’re in 2B, up the stairs on the right. Laundry’s in the basement, you’ll need quarters. I come by on the first at noon to pick up rent. Don’t care how you pay it as long as it’s on time.” He headed out of the building without saying anything more. 

The apartment was empty aside from a fridge, a stove, and a dishwasher that Stiles could tell had seen better days. Peter sighed heavily once they were inside, and it was the first time in four days that Stiles could see how tired he was. 

“Furniture?” Stiles asked, wandering from the living room into the – “Is there only one bedroom?”

Peter’s chuckle rang in from the other room. “I had very little time to arrange this, Stiles. I did my best.” 

“Bullshit.” Stiles said, returning to the living room, frustration bubbling out of him. “I call bullshit.”

He was suddenly much closer to Peter than he’d meant to be, his finger nearly touching the werewolf’s face. He could feel the Siren magic bubbling up from somewhere inside himself, a desire that made Stiles feel sick. He turned to move away, but the werewolf caught his hand.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. Heavily lidded blue eyes - part arousal, part exhaustion - stared back at Stiles. “Whatever you need, that’s why I’m here.” 

“And that’s why there’s only going to be one bed?” Stiles accused, so close to Peter that he could feel the wolf’s body heat through his clothes. 

“It would facilitate some of the things I anticipate you’re going to need.” Peter’s thumb brushed gently against the inside of Stiles’s wrist. “But it wasn’t calculated beyond this being one of the first apartments I came across.” 

Stiles was struck by the scenario, and how it was similar and different from the last time Peter’d had a grip on his wrist. Back when Peter had been an alpha he’d held Stiles’s wrist in a painfully similar way; gripped gently, tilted towards him, and asked Stiles if he wanted the Bite. Now, the better part of two years later, he no longer had the power in the scenario. He held Stiles’s wrist to keep him close, but it would be nothing for Stiles to command Peter to release him.

He didn’t though, remembering the feel of Peter’s hands on his back, talking him down from his panic attack, the fond amusement that had colored his voice in the past few days. There were moments, glimpses, of a Peter that wasn’t a monster.

Stiles shook his head slowly, tugging his wrist away with no resistance from Peter. “A king bed better fit in that room.” He said, stepping back and rubbing at his face with both hands, “So I can be far enough away to sleep without your needy werewolf ass touching me.” 

“Why, Stiles, I’m offended that you think I’m needy.” Peter had a hand pressed against his chest in mock-offense.

“I don’t think,” Stiles said. “I know. Even if you don’t say it, you’re not gonna be able to hide it from me. Werewolves are pack animals, after all.”

\--

Their first act as residents of Arlington, Texas was a trip to the nearest Ikea – _it’s reasonably cheap and quick, Peter_ – to outfit their apartment, including Stiles’s requisite king bed, which took up most of the floor space of the bedroom. Stiles had also forced Peter to buy a laptop, a TV, and have the internet installed in the apartment. The werewolf had, with many sighs and eye rolls, indulged the young siren. 

It was pointless, after all. If Peter had said no at any point, which he was surprisingly disinclined to do, Stiles would likely have just forced him. 

For Peter, it was easy to do his job anywhere. He had, since his resurrection, had a contact build him a discrete website that, to someone who knew how to look, offered him as an information source in the… extermination of threats. 

“So, basically, people pay you to tell them how to kill things?” Stiles asked, resting his head against the back of their recently assembled couch. 

“That’s a simplistic view of it.” 

“It’s literally exactly what you said.” 

“I’m an information broker.” 

“Yes, information about _how to kill things_.” 

Over the course of the next two weeks Peter indulged Stiles in a large number of these inane conversations. It was clear by the end of the first week that Stiles was painfully bored, so Peter tossed him an external hard drive. 

“Instead of whining, be helpful.”

Stiles had stared at the drive. “How is this going to let me be helpful?” 

Peter gave him a long look. “Why don’t you just plug it in and find out?”

Stiles had, and moments later his amber eyes had gone wide as he turned to Peter. “How… many bestairies do you have access to?” 

It turned out to be the only surefire way to get Stiles to be quiet; give him a task to research and he went from talking incessantly to hyper focused in a span of minutes. 

A request had come in for information on how to destroy a salamander. Peter had offered this task up to Stiles, who had taken it – as he had all such tasks – with glee. It was a few hours later that Peter realized his mistake when Stiles set the computer on the coffee table and sat back, drawing in a long breath. 

“Turns out I can be killed. Bronze, and the blood of someone under my thrall,” he’d said quietly, hands folded between his knees. He turned to Peter, “Do hunters, or whoever you sell your information to, do they hunt sirens?” 

Salamanders, it turned out, were much too close to ‘sirens’ in the databases for Stiles to resist.

Peter closed the lid of his own computer and turned towards Stiles, crossing one of his legs under the opposite knee and gripping his shin with both hands. “Some do. When they’ve become a threat.” 

Stiles nodded slowly, his eyes still focused on the floor. Peter could hear the uptick in his heart rate, and the telltale signs of impending panic. “I don’t want to become a threat,” he whispered.

Peter reached out, resting a hand on the nape of Stiles’s neck, brushing his thumb in small, even strokes. “That’s why we’re here,” he said quietly. “We’re here because the only person you could hurt right now is me, and I don’t intend to give you a reason to do so. But, Stiles I don’t want to see you hurting. I’ve given you permission – _consent –_ a number of times now. Use your thrall however you need to.”

“However I need to?” Stiles asked, turning to Peter with wide brown eyes. In that moment he looked very much like the wide-eyed young man with the buzz cut that had defiantly stood up to Peter at the height of his madness. 

“However you need to,” Peter repeated.

Stiles let out a long slow breath and then said, “ **Kiss me**.” 

As if he’d needed thrall for Peter to follow that order.

\--

After that Stiles was much more amenable to using his thrall with Peter. They never even made it past rutting together on the couch and heavy petting, but it was clear immediately the difference it made for Stiles. 

He started to gain weight again and to eat more regularly. Where he had once looked bony and unhealthy – and had, really since his possession – he looked better overall. 

To celebrate having made it a month without anyone from the pack finding them, Stiles allowed Peter to drag him out of the apartment to the southern entertainment district down on Randol Mill road. The bars there were all, aptly, southern themed, which amused Stiles to no end. Peter had even bought a pair of boots for the occasion, which Stiles had made fun of him for incessantly. 

“It’s important to fit in.” Peter had insisted, shrugging. Stiles had ignored him, dressing in a long-sleeved henley that Peter actually suspected was his and a pair of jeans that were no longer too-loose on him. 

The bar they went to was loud enough to drown out anything that wasn’t Stiles, who Peter kept a possessive arm around as they found their way to a table in the back corner of the bar. Peter smirked as they entered, away from Stiles, after catching a glimpse of a broad pair of shoulders covered in plaid. He’d picked this bar intentionally; it was a favorite of Alpha Gage Thomas.

Stiles resolutely refused to dance, curled into his chair and sipping at the drinks Peter ordered them. The waitress had looked skeptically at Stiles until he’d produced his _Miles Carter_ ID. Peter hadn’t missed Stiles’s hand casually contacting hers as he passed it over, and he couldn’t help but wonder if her willingness to accept the fake ID was assisted by a burst of Stiles’s power.

He was about to ask, but lost his chance when a tall, thin, dark haired werewolf suddenly appeared at the edge of their table. She glanced first at Peter, and then at Stiles for long enough that Peter had to bite down the urge to growl. 

He knew that on the surface Stiles smelled perfectly human, but if they paid too much attention, the sea salted air that augmented his usual blend of cloves, cinnamon and caramel would give him away.

“Can we help you?” Peter asked, smiling sharply. 

She turned back to him. “Alpha says he hasn’t seen you two ’round these parts before,” she drawled. “He sent me over here t’tell ya he doesn’t take kindly to werewolves an’ –” she threw her head in Stiles's direction, her long hair glimmering in the neon lights “– whatever he is who show up on his turf without havin’ the courtesy of announcin’ themselves. Courtesy is important ’round here.” 

Peter nodded slowly, and glanced at Stiles, whose eyes were fixed over the brunette’s shoulders. Peter followed the gaze and found Stiles locked in a staring contest with, of all people, the Alpha himself. 

Peter reached across the table to cover Stiles’s hands with his own, squeezing his hands to draw his attention back before he turned to the brunette werewolf. “You can tell Gage that the practice of announcing your presence when entering a territory died out in the eighties. He should know better than to have expected that of someone like me.”

“And just who are you?” the wolf asked.

“Peter Hale,” he answered, smirking. The wolf’s eyes went wide and her mouth closed so fast that Peter was sure he would have heard the click of her teeth had the bar been quieter. She gave a brief nod and turned around. Peter watched her weave her way across the crowded bar to the table where Gage sat.

“Who is Gage?” Stiles asked, sitting back against his chair. “And why did your name make such an impact? Also, aren’t we supposed to be keeping a low profile? You just _told her your real name_.” 

Peter took a long drink from his beer, knowing that how he handled this would determine the success or failure of his carefully concocted plan. 

He set the bottle down and looked directly at Stiles. “Gage Thomas has been a thorn in the side of the werewolf community for the last thirty years. He’s practically untouchable here. The law enforcement are either in the know, or part of his pack. He basically runs this town.”

Stiles nodded, but his eyebrows drew together. “That doesn’t explain how he’s a thorn in the community's side.” 

Peter wrapped both of his hands around the bottle and rested his chin on its mouth. “He’s old fashioned. He holds people to outdated standards. He turns people without asking, sometimes even children –”

“Pot, kettle, black.”

“– hunters have tried to take him out for years and failed.”

“Okay. Why insult him and tell him who you are, then? Aren’t you basically painting a target on your back?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Peter smiled, sitting back. “Word of my resurrection spread. Now that he knows who I am, it’s inevitable that he won’t allow me to remain in his territory unchecked. And, he likely thinks, correctly, that I’m more than a match for all but his very best betas. If he wants to keep control of his town, he won’t risk his best to take me out.”

“ **Quit dancing around the question, Peter** ,” Stiles spat. 

“I want to have a target on my back,” Peter said, thankful that the order had been so vague. He reached for his beer, taking a long drag of it to allow the residual thrall to fade before he spoke again. “I want him to come after me. I think, with your help, we could do the werewolf world a real service.” 

Stiles raised both of his eyebrow, amber eyes wide and tinged with pink from the neon lights. “You want me to help you kill him,” he whispered.

Peter tipped his bottle towards Stiles with a grin. “You always were the clever one.” 

\--

A more sober Stiles would probably have chosen _not_ to start anything with Peter once they’d returned home from the bar that night. He didn’t even have to speak anymore for his thrall to take hold of the werewolf, his body molding against Stiles. Stiles pressed him against the door to their apartment, slotted their lips together and tucked one of his legs in between Peter’s. 

Once upon a time, the wolf had seemed larger than life; the nightmare in the back of Stiles’s mind. Now, though, now he melted under Stiles’s thrall, under his touch and his kiss and the hard press of Stiles’s hips. Stiles could barely see the crystal blue of Peter’s iris, pupils blown wide with lust - half his own, and half the result of Stiles’s influence.

Stiles forced himself to pull away completely, reeling back his power and binding it down. He was a monster, but he wouldn’t be _that_ kind of monster. He would never take what wasn’t freely offered, even if parts of him wanted to do exactly that. 

Stiles may no longer be human, but he still held himself to human standards. He had to, or he was sure that the demon inside of him would turn him into someone else’s nightmare.

When the thrall had worn off – evidenced by the sharp awareness Peter was exuding and clarity in his too-blue eyes – Stiles licked his lips. “Can I fuck you?” he asked, hands at his sides aching to touch. 

Peter stared at him for what felt like an eternity. There was something calculating about his psychic signature that made Stiles take a _very_ brief pause, but before the thought had completed, Peter was nodding. 

Even that took a moment to process, courtesy of the alcohol. He could feel his mind start to clear, though, as the effects of using his thrall took hold. It was like a shot of caffeine, directly into his bloodstream; a rush of energy, motivation and instant clarity. The alcohol still lingered at the edges of his mind, but Stiles knew it was only a matter of moments before he’d lose the spike of courage. 

So, before that could happen, he tugged Peter into the bedroom, pulling the werewolf close and kissing him once more. He could taste the residual beer in Peter’s mouth, and was sure the wolf could taste the fruity drinks he’d consumed. Stiles reached for Peter’s belt, flicking it open and tossing it away, reaching for the button on his jeans, only for Peter’s hand to land on his. “There’s no rush, Stiles,” Peter murmured, his eyes hazy. “I’m not going to change my mind.” 

Time seemed to move slowly in the few awkward moments it took for them to undress each other. Peter’s stupid boots didn’t want to come off, and then Peter complained about how tightly Stiles’s jeans fit him. Stiles considered it a good sign that the wolf was talking at all. 

If he was still forming independent thoughts, he was still coherent enough for Stiles to notice if anything about his emotions drifted away from the arousal and contentment he was putting off now. 

There was no consent with Stiles. Not once they were in bed, once Stiles had his hands on the wolf. Peter was splayed out on his back, head tipped back, eyes flickering from his usual ice blue to the burning cobalt intermittently. Stiles wondered if that was what was allowing him to stay alert. Was he using his wolf just enough to push through the thrall?

Still, Peter let Stiles tip his head back, baring his neck in a way that earned a warning growl, low in Peter’s chest. Stiles pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. 

“It’s okay, big bad wolf,” he whispered, breathing intentionally against the sensitive skin along his jugular. “I don’t have fangs to tear your throat out with.” Stiles experimentally sucked a mark into Peter’s throat, feeling Peter’s cock give a hard twitch against his hip. The mark faded in a matter of moments.

“Are you going to fuck me, or are you just going to torture me all night?” Peter asked, breathlessly.

Stiles tugged Peter’s chin down so he could look at the wolf’s eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me.” Stiles pressed up so he hovered over the wolf, licking his lips. “I can’t smell you, but I don’t have to.” Stiles ran a single finger down Peter’s chest to tease at the waistband of his boxer briefs. “I just know you’re more content than you’ve felt in weeks.” Stiles leaned back down so his head was tucked under Peter’s chin, whispering against the soft skin of the wolf’s throat. “You might want to be an alpha, but right now you’re _my_ beta.” Stiles smiled against the skin there as he heard a soft, unconscious whine slip out from the wolf’s lips.

“Torture, then,” Peter grumbled, but it lacked its usual bite, and when Stiles lifted his head once more, Peter was smirking.

Stiles moved away from his neck, working his way slowly down Peter’s broad chest, flicking at a nipple with his tongue until Peter was once again whining beneath him. 

“You basically just asked for torture,” Stiles commented nonchalantly.

After he was sure the wolf was suitably aroused he sat back, keeping his hand on Peter’s leg. “Do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked. “ **Tell me the truth**.”

“God, yes,” Peter answered. His chest was heaving and his cock had leaked noticeably against the straining fabric of his underwear. 

After a moment of considering if he actually was done teasing Peter, Stiles propped himself on one elbow and palmed at his own dick. Reaching out to grip at Peter’s ankle he grinned. “Get on with it then,” he said, winking. “ **Prep yourself to be fucked**.”

The only sign that Peter wasn’t just a mindless participant in Stiles’s whims was a single cocked eyebrow as Peter rolled himself smoothly to a seat and then turned towards the nightstand. Stiles bit down on his bottom lip to keep from moaning at the planes of smooth skin and muscle, accentuated by Peter’s reach for the lube in the drawer. 

Stiles was _vibrating_ with power. He was also incredibly horny and painfully hard, but he felt more alive than he had since the Nogitsune had taken control of his body. He could feel the flush in his own cheeks, knew he was grinning wide enough that they might hurt later. 

Smoothly, Peter removed the last of his clothing, and then glanced over his shoulder at Stiles with a smirk. Awareness in his eyes told Stiles the thrall had faded with the leisurely time it had taken him to retrieve the lube and remove his underwear. “Any more orders, your highness?”

“Peter we don’t have to do this.” Stiles said suddenly, knocked out of the moment by the snark, “If you’re not–”

“I was kidding, Stiles,” Peter turned back towards him. Stiles’s eyes fell hungrily on the cock between his legs. Stiles licked his lips unconsciously and said, “ **Hurry up.** ” 

Peter rolled his eyes, but did settle himself on his knees in front of Stiles. He winked as he reached one of his hands behind himself.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles whined. He slid his own underwear off and then moved so he was on his own knees. Peter kept his eyes fixed on Stiles as the Siren grinned wickedly, reaching out to cup Peter’s cheek. “ **Turn around.** I wanna watch.” 

Peter huffed but smiled, turning around so that Stiles could see that he already had two of his own fingers moving inside his ass. Stiles couldn’t help the whine, and the sharp spike of desire, that shot through him. He was actually going to be allowed to do this. Peter _fucking_ Hale was going to let Stiles _fuck him._

Stiles ran one of his hands down the werewolf’s back, Peter leaning into the touch even as Stiles watched him spread the two fingers to work himself open. Stiles reached for the lube and squirted it onto his own fingers, nudging one of his own between the two of Peter’s in a slow, deliberate motion. Peter groaned and fell forward to give Stiles easier access, his ass in the air and one of his arms folded under him for support. Stiles pressed a kiss to the base of Peter’s spine, earning himself another low whine. 

“ **Take your fingers out.** ” Stiles said after a few moments, sliding in a second of his own fingers, and then a third once Peter had removed his own. “Are you ready?” He asked, twisting his fingers inside of Peter, the wolf rocking his hips back. 

“Yes,” Peter answered. His voice was breathy in a way Stiles could never have predicted. Stiles’s cock twitched at the sound of it, and if he wasn’t already worried about his ability to keep himself from coming, he certainly was now.

Stiles withdrew his fingers and after a moment to add lube, slid himself into Peter in one fluid movement. Peter breathed out a quiet, “Oh fuck.”

“How long has it been since someone fucked you?” Stiles asked. He slid out back in a moment later, his hands squeezing tightly at Peter’s hips. 

“Before the fire,” Peter answered, his voice muffled by the way he’d planted his face into the pillow in front of him. “Now shut up and _fuck me_.” 

Stiles swatted at Peter’s ass playfully as he worked into a rhythm, but did as he was told. He experimentally leaned closer, blanketing Peter’s back with his own body and pressing kisses along the sweaty skin he found there. Peter shuddered as Stiles took his time, licking his way around the knobs of his spine, one of Peter’s hands coming back to grip at Stiles’s hips as he rocked his own back against Stiles.

Stiles lapped up one last bead of salty sweat before pressing back up, fucking into Peter more vigorously. He could feel his own orgasm approaching, and Peter’s noises were getting less coherent and more insistent. 

“Can you come without either of us touching your dick?” Stiles asked, rhetorically. “I bet you can if I tell you to. But I want to watch.” He pulled out completely. “ **On your back.** ”

Peter rolled over, his pupils once more lust-blown. Stiles pushed Peter’s legs apart and lifted the wolf’s hips so he could slide back inside of him, watching with glee as Peter’s eyes fell closed and his head tipped back, exposing with no reservations the neck he’d so firmly protected earlier. 

“That’s it.” Stiles said, rocking himself into Peter in quick, deep thrusts.

Between Peter’s legs his dick sat heavy and red, and one of Peter’s hands, previously resting on his stomach, started down towards it. “ **Don’t touch yourself** ,” Stiles blurted out. Peter’s eyes snapped open and met Stiles, rings of cobalt blue greeting him. “ **You can come without it,”** Stiles smirked. “ **Come for me, Peter.** ”

“ _Fuck._ ” The word slipped out from between the werewolf’s lips as his cock gave one last twitch and he came across the hand he’d intended to stroke himself with. Stiles lost himself to the overwhelming crash of his own orgasm; burying himself inside Peter with a moan of the wolf’s name.

Stiles let his eyes fall closed through the aftershocks, letting Peter’s legs fall to the bed on either side of him. After a minute (or five, or ten, he couldn’t have given a sure answer) he reopened them to stare down at the wolf who had sank back into the bed. Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Peter look so… blissful. 

The wolf’s eyes opened slowly, back to their normal crystal blue. “I think I should get a trophy for that.”

Stiles snorted, “I did all the work, why do you get a trophy?”

“Maybe a T-shirt,” Peter said with a smirk. “I got fucked by a siren and lived to tell the tale.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, pulled out of Peter and left the werewolf laughing in the bed as he headed for the shower.

\--

**if you think Stiles is up for helping Peter take out the alpha, keep reading. If you think Stiles is against helping Peter take out the alpha,[click here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602640/chapters/62141488)**

\--

Peter woke to the sound of rapid knocking on the apartment door. With a sleep-clumsy arm he patted the bed beside him, trying to find Stiles. He finally found the siren, star-fished out on two thirds of the bed, still smelling like Peter and the faint scent of his bodywash from his shower the night before. “Stiles, it would seem we have a guest.” 

“Mm, you get it,” Stiles murmured, still mostly asleep. “I think that’s a bad idea,” Peter whispered into his ear, running one hand through the younger man’s overgrown hair. “I suspect the banging at the door is our friend Alpha Thomas.”

“‘s not my friend,” Stiles said into his pillow, before rolling over and yawning, blinking open sleepy amber eyes. 

“He’s not really anyone’s friend, I suspect.” Peter held up a flippant hand. “But unfortunately, I’m sure he’s going to continue banging on the door ‘til he gets what he wants.”

“Which is what?” Stiles snorted, rubbing at his eyes. 

Through the door, the Alpha yelled, “Hale, if ya don’t open this damn door right now you’re gonna more than just regret enterin’ my territory without permission.” 

“Ah, his highness requests an audience.” The Siren sat up, yawning once more. He turned to Peter with a critical look that made Peter sit up a little straighter in the bed. “You sure you want to do this? What do we do about his pack once it’s done?”

“Give them the choice of becoming my betas or leaving,” Peter answered easily.

“And if you go mad again?” Stiles breathed, looking away.

Peter hmm’d quietly and leaned over to press a kiss to Stiles’s temple. “I won’t,” he promised. “But, on the slight chance that does occur, I happen to know someone who’s well versed in the art of keeping me under control.” Peter felt Stiles’s body shake with a silent laugh. “I’m fond enough of him that I _probably_ wouldn’t even try to kill him in retaliation.”

Stiles turned back to Peter with a smile, leaning down for a kiss. He climbed out of bed, stretching towards the ceiling, giving Peter a truly delicious view of lean planes of muscle and a light trail of hair from his navel. “How is this going to work?”

“You’re going to have to touch him,” Peter whispered. “I suspect controlling an unknown alpha will be harder than controlling me. If you can just immobilize him, we’ll be good to go.”

“Controlling you isn’t hard though,” Stiles winked. “And, if you remember, I did manage to keep Scott from killing you, so we know I can do it. What if he’s got friends with him?” 

A small, private grin spread across Peter’s face as the Siren bent over to reach for a shirt - Peter’s from the night before. “It depends on if they respect the rules of the challenge or not.”

“Aren’t you breaking the rules of the challenge with my presence?” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “Also, you really like to pick and choose which werewolf cultural traditions you follow, don’t you?”

“Sweetheart, my entire life has been me picking and choosing the things that I want.” Peter climbed out of bed and pressed a kiss to Stiles’s shoulder. “What I want is to be an alpha, and you. So, be discreet. I believe in you.” He winked. 

“Hale! Only reason I ’aven’t broken down this door’s ’cause I like the old geezer who owns the place. So ya better open up before I do.”

Peter grabbed for a T-shirt and a pair of shorts he suspected were Stiles’s. It didn’t matter much; with luck, by early afternoon they’d both be burning their clothing anyway. 

Stiles stopped in the doorway and turned over his shoulder to look at Peter with an annoyed harrumph.

“What?” Peter asked.

Stiles pursed his lips momentarily and then answered, “We’re gonna have blood everywhere, aren’t we?” 

“Very likely.” Peter grinned widely, and reached for the Siren, drawing him in for a long, slow kiss. “Maybe once we’re done, you’ll let _me_ fuck _you_. Since I’ll no longer be _yourbeta._ ”

Stiles shook his head and chuckled, heading for the front door. “God werewolves are so fucking weird.”

Peter didn’t miss the excitement in his scent, though. Peter dropped onto the corner of the couch and crossed one of his legs over the other, angling his body towards the door as Stiles opened it. 

“Hello, Gage.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! Which ending did you prefer? I couldn't decide personally, so I wrote both haha! 
> 
> My beta, Meri, can be found [here!]() Meri and I created the [in a meadow starred with flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746553) series, so I highly recommend reading that if you liked my lovely little siren chid.
> 
> Caden, my Texas source, can be found [here!](https://pinknogitsune.tumblr.com)
> 
> I can be found [here!](https://tiniestawoo.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {the alternate ending}

Peter woke to the sound of rapid knocking on the apartment door. With a still-tired arm he patted the bed beside him, trying to find Stiles. When he hit cold sheets instead his eyes sprang open, and he stared at the empty half of the bed. “Stiles?”

When no answer came, and he couldn’t hear anything _but_ the pounding on the door he felt a sick twist in his stomach. He sat up and glanced around the still mostly-empty room. “Stiles?” He tried again.

If the knock on the door was who he suspected it would be, and the Siren was gone, the situation just became infinitely trickier to get out of. He swallowed hard, rubbing at his face with one hand. 

Climbing to his feet he heard a voice call through the door, “Hale, if ya don’t open this damn door right now you’re gonna more than just regret enterin’ my territory without permission.” 

Gage Thomas. Perfect.

Peter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me just a moment, please.” 

Wandering through the apartment – with no sign of his wayward siren – Peter stopped short of the coffee table, his eyes falling on a piece of paper resting there. Glancing briefly at the door he stopped to grab the paper, taking a long steadying breath before he flipped it open.

 _Peter_ ,

_I left Beacon Hills with you because I didn’t want to hurt anybody. You knew that. I knew when we left that you were anything but a good person, but the last month with you almost fooled me into believing there was more to you than just a manipulative monster._  
_Turns out it was a ruse. I’m just a tool for you. A way for you to get the spark that you’ve been craving since Derek tore it out with your throat._  
_Thank you for all the information you’ve given me – for free, at least on my end. It’s been an educational month. I wish you all the best dealing with your Alpha friend._

 _-Stiles_

When had he miscalculated? Had Stiles really drawn the line at Peter’s request for help killing the Alpha? 

Peter’s mind raced to replay the last month in his mind. From his perspective, everything had been perfectly under control. Had he been...played by the Siren? It seemed preposterous.

“Hale! Only reason I ’aven’t broken down this door’s ’cause I like the old geezer who owns the place. So ya better open up before I do.”

Peter set the note back down, glancing at the door and debating if he could escape out the bedroom window before Gage caught on to what he was doing. He flicked his eyes back to the note. 

With a resigned sigh he stepped towards the door to accept his fate. Hell, for a month he’d been convinced there was more to him than just a manipulative monster too.

_\--_

Stiles stared at the phone and passport in his hands for a long time, sitting in the international departures terminal at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. He hadn’t taken much with him from Beacon Hills, but he was glad he’d at least had the forethought to grab his passport. He wasn’t ready to go home, not yet. 

Given the money he’d managed to take from Peter’s stash, he could go anywhere. 

Bouncing his knee, he unlocked his phone and typed in the only number that he’d ever bothered to memorize, holding the phone to his ear with a shaking hand.

“Stilinski.” Noah sounded tired, somehow older than he’d been a month ago.

“Dad.” Stiles whispered, “Hey.” 

“Stiles?” 

Noah fell silent after he exhaled Stiles’s name, and Stiles clenched a fist and bit down on his lip to keep from breaking down right there in the middle of the airport. 

“I’m okay,” Stiles said quickly. “I’m uh, I’m not coming back to Beacon Hills, at least not anytime soon. I’m going overseas, so I wanted to just let you know I was alive.”

“Where are you going? Where have you been?”

“It doesn’t matter, and I haven’t decided yet,” Stiles lied. “But, I’m okay. I’m pretty uh… pretty durable. I’ve got some money stashed with me to exchange once I’m on the other side of the pond. Just, can you tell everyone; Scott, and Lydia, and Derek? Can you tell them I’m okay, but ask them not to come looking for me?”

“Stiles… why can’t you just come home?”

Stiles swallowed back a wave of emotions. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Dad. I just. Ask Derek to explain this. Tell him I’m still finding my anchor, okay? Tell him that I thought I’d found it, but I haven’t yet.”

“I’ll tell him.” Noah cleared his throat. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles smiled, a real, relieved smile. “Yeah, Dad. I’m gonna be fine. I love you, okay?”

“I love you too, kid.” 

Stiles hung up before he could change his mind. 

Loudly, a moment later, the overhead announced: _Flight number 3724 to London-Heathrow is now boarding_.

**Author's Note:**

> WOO! Which ending did you prefer? I couldn't decide personally, so I wrote both haha! 
> 
> My beta, Meri, can be found [here!]() Meri and I created the [in a meadow starred with flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746553) series, so I highly recommend reading that if you liked my lovely little siren chid.
> 
> Caden, my Texas source, can be found [here!](https://pinknogitsune.tumblr.com)
> 
> I can be found [here!](https://tiniestawoo.tumblr.com)


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